Seeing Red
by CentonEqualsWin
Summary: Punk is furious with Jericho, but not for long... Color prompt. Sucky summary, less sucky story.


Title: Seeing Red

Pairing: Punk/Jericho, Punkicho (I think is the name…)

Rating: T to be safe (slight blood, make-out scene)

Disclaimer: I no own. I no get rich. I no have these men chained in my basement. This makes me sad.

A/N: Saw a color prompt, thought I'd use red, and well, this happened. My most "mature" fic to date (which is sad, cuz this is almost bubble-gum).

ONWARD!

* * *

Punk was seeing red.

The phrase is one of the largest clichés in the history of the English language, but it was highly appropriate for the tattooed man tonight. As he marched toward the locker room, all he could see was a scarlet hue, pulsing in time with quotes from Jericho's speech.

_Your father is an alcoholic. _Red on the Monday Night RAW sign.

_Your sister is a drug addict. _Red tights on a frightened unknown Superstar, quickly stepping out of Punk's way.

_Your mother is morally loose. _Red flashing before his eyes.

_Soon, you'll be an alcoholic. Just like dear ol' Daddy._ Red.

_You're intoxicated now! Go on, Punk, take your next drink!_ Red.

Red. Red. Fury.

Punk reached his destination, and wrenched open Chris Jericho's locker room door. The older man was perched on the edge of a bench, removing his boots. As Punk came in, Jericho glanced up and smiled before returning to his boots, like Punk wasn't even close to being a threat.

"Can I help you?" Jericho asked, a lazy tone creeping into his accent-infused voice. Punk quickly charged toward the bench and shoved Jericho to his feet. Once standing, Punk pinned Chris's back against the lockers. The red lockers. _How fitting_, Punk mused, before directing his full attention back to the Canadian. Jericho cracked a smirk, not fighting against the restraint of Punk's arm, not talking, not flailing.

"Who the _hell_," Punk seethed through clenched teeth, "do you think you are?"

Jericho chuckled. "Other than a sexy beast? Other than the best in the world? Other than the man that has managed to get under your skin so deep, you'll need surgery to pull me back out? Gosh, I guess I'm a nobody. Oh wait, nope, forgot the rockstar bit." A smug smirk danced along Jericho's face. "Face it, Punk, I've shaken you. And you know there is nothing you can do to get me loose."

Punk barely heard any of Jericho's speech, however. His heart was pumping like a bass drum in his ear. Pure adrenaline took over his mind. Without a sound, Punk drew back and punched Chris in the mouth. A brief look of shock crossed Jericho's face, and a barrage of taped and tattooed fists rained down on the older man. After a few more punches, Punk realized that Jericho wasn't doing anything. His fists were limp at his sides. He hadn't thrown a single punch. Punk's vision cleared for a moment, and he got a closer look at Jericho's face. A purplish bruise was forming on the left side of Jericho's face, just above his cheek. His chest had a similar mark forming. Chris's lip was split, and a trickle of bright crimson blood leaked down his face. Panting, Punk dropped the arm holding Jericho hostage against the lockers.

"Why won't you fi—" Punk's confused statement was cut off. Chris grabbed the sides of Punk's face and pulled him in for a deep kiss. Punk's eyes widened, then closed as his other senses took over. His hands drifted up Jericho's ribs, then wrapped tightly around his shoulders to deepen the kiss. Every single nerve in his body was on fire; his mind was saying it was wrong, but the adrenaline high made him act otherwise. Punk didn't fight as Jericho's tongue gently prodded his lips, and he allowed access fairly quickly. The taste of Jericho and the coppery tang of blood filled his mouth, and he moaned softly. He got a little louder as Chris wove his fingers in the dark hair and pulled him impossibly closer. Punk was practically shaking from the adrenaline rush and pure emotion rippling through him. He didn't care that this was the man that insulted his father, his sister, his whole family. He didn't care that he had been doused in alcohol and had a bottle smashed over his skull. All that he cared about was getting more of this Canadian.

As quickly as it started, Jericho yanked away. Punk's eyes fluttered open and he licked a touch of the other man's blood from the corner of his mouth. Jericho wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and cracked his signature smirk.

"See, Punk? I'm under your skin. I can turn you from a violent bastard to a horny teenager in less than five seconds. You may not be an alcoholic, or a drug user, but you are addicted to me. The Jerichoholic's meeting is this Wednesday." Jericho glanced at Punk's trunk tent, and laughed softly. "Have fun with your hand tonight. We both know what you'll be thinking of." With that, Jericho spun on his heel, grabbed his bag, and walked out of the locker room.

Punk stood in the room for a while, staring after the man. He wasn't sure how it happened, or when, but he knew Chris was right; he was Jericho's emotional puppet.

Next time, perhaps he could twist it to his advantage.


End file.
